


You Never Forget

by Ashesintheair



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Gen, Implied Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-03
Updated: 2014-09-03
Packaged: 2018-02-16 00:25:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2249073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ashesintheair/pseuds/Ashesintheair
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An imagining of Arya post-series, after a request for a fic where Arya was actually happy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Never Forget

It was the music of the forge that called her. She didn’t spend much time in the Godswood. Not because she didn’t feel welcome there, but because there had always been an otherworldy air to that space. The forge was more grounded and felt like home.

The walls of Winterfell were strong again and had pulled Arya Stark in from the cold, wrapping around her, warm and welcome.

The music didn’t stop as she approached; the ringing of the hammer on steel, the hiss of the steam and boiling water, the crackle of the white hot coals.

She watched as Gendry set down a blade to cool. It wasn’t a greatsword or some clunky knight’s weapon. It was fine and slender as a needle.

Arya reached out for it unconsciously, her hand closing around the grip as if the steel had always been part of her arm. She settled into a water-dancer’s pose as easily as other women dropped a curtsy and closed her eyes, feeling the breeze around her, the new extension of her arm, the endless forge music that filled the world.

She moved slowly through a few forms with a grace that few who knew her would believe, faltering only when she realised that the forge was still. Arya turned to find Gendry watching her, brushing his hands on a leather apron covered with scorch marks.

"Do you miss it?" He cocked his head to one side.

Her eyes flickered back over the blade, the points of light dancing along the fine edge. She knew that he wondered about the things that she had done. He was not the only one. There were other questions that had been asked, darker ones, about what she had acquired a taste for, what she might do if left to her own devices. There was no way to make them understand that Arya hadn’t done those things, that Arya was the one who had come home.

There was a place for Arya Stark in Winterfell for as long as she wanted it, Rickon had been firm about that. There was a place for Gendry too, if that was what he wanted. She knew that her brother would have preferred that she (in truth, Gendry, for things had not changed that much) take up a Lordship - one more supporter for him whose loyalty was beyond question. But she had spent too much time away from Winterfell to want to leave it just yet.

Arya tossed the blade into the air and caught it, the blade resting on two outstretched fingers. It see-sawed for a moment and then found balance. It was a good sword, she already knew that. She threw it into the air a second time and caught the hilt again.

"You’ll lose your fingers if you keep showing off like that."

Arya grinned and returned the sword to the rack. “No,” she answered suddenly. “That’s all over now.” The other names fell away like raindrops falling from her skin. “I don’t miss it.”


End file.
